


Get It While You Can

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Author's Favorite, F/M, Families of Choice, M/M, OT3, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:32:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is something wrong at home?” Peggy asked, nervously. “Is your father - okay?”</p>
<p>“He’s fine,” Ginsberg said, and he really did look like hell, just exhausted. For the first time it occurred to Peggy that this could be a physical problem. A cold, shapeless fear shot through her.</p>
<p>“You’re not … you're not sick, are you?” she asked, a little shriller than she meant to be.</p>
<p>“No! I just haven’t been sleeping good lately. It’s - it’s not from something bad. I’m being stupid, that’s all.” He looked helplessly at her. “You wouldn’t understand.”</p>
<p>“Try me.”</p>
<p>He sighed, defeated, and said the last thing Peggy expected. “My father is getting married.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or: Ginsberg moves into Peggy's building, shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get It While You Can

**Author's Note:**

> Some minor and period-typical anti-semitism in one scene. Title taken from the Janis Joplin song.

 

The change in Ginsberg was gradual enough that at first Peggy took no notice of it. It was Stan who pointed it out, during recon concerning a mediocre campaign that had failed to catch on with Surf.

The two of them were alone. Ginsberg had gone to get them coffee. He had been remarkably quick to volunteer - usually he kicked up a fuss over being the errand boy, as he put it, and would at least try to convince someone to go with him.

“Does he not seem normal to you, lately?” Stan asked after Ginsberg was out the door.

Peggy considered this. “Does he seem normal ever?”

“I mean by his standards,” said Stan. He sounded so worried that Peggy couldn’t write it off. “He didn’t say a word in there.”

“It was laundry detergent. Comfortable and domestic isn’t his sphere,” Peggy said, but she knew Stan was right. Ginsberg had been subdued over the past few weeks, and much quieter. It annoyed her that she wasn’t happier about that.

“Should we say something to him?” Peggy asked with some doubt. “He gets so crabby whenever I ask him personal questions.”

“He’s overprotective of his home life,” Stan said. Peggy didn’t know what that meant, but she didn’t get to ask because Ginsberg came back in, carrying coffee and also a bag of pastries. His cheeks were red from the wind.

Peggy looked at him sharply. He seemed tired - and not just tired, but drained - all his firecracker energy gone. There was gray under his eyes and the corners of his mouth were pinched.

“What?” he asked. “Did I get the order wrong?”

“Nothing,” Peggy said, wondering guiltily if she had been putting too much work on him. “Thank you for picking it up.”

“You didn’t get one for yourself?” asked Stan, looking in the bag and discovering it held two croissants.

“I’m not hungry,” Ginsberg said distractedly, unzipping his coat and putting the coffee on Peggy’s desk. His mind was clearly on something else.

“Not feeling well?” Peggy asked, careful not to sound too invested.

He caught her out anyway. “I feel fine,” he said, eyebrows drawing together in suspicion.

“It’s just Surf, man. They didn’t fire us. We redo the work all the time.” Stan said.

“I’m not bothered by that. I feel fine, just like I said.” Ginsberg lied, very badly.

“Okay,” Peggy said, “but you can let me know if you aren’t.” She had hoped to make it clear that there was a door open if he needed it. That was all.

It did not have the desired effect. Ginsberg zipped his coat back up and picked up his coffee. “I’m gonna go for a walk around the block. I need some air,” he said in a flat, mild tone that sounded nothing like him at all. His face was as shuttered as an abandoned house.

“... you were just out there,” said Stan, exasperated.

But Ginsberg was already leaving, tossing a “See you later” over his shoulder as he went. He wasn’t angry - he could never hide his anger - but he wasn’t sticking around either.

“That went well,” Peggy said.

 

A week later Ginsberg nodded off during a budget meeting. Only for a second, his head rolling forward, followed by a big twitch and panicked blinking. Joan was looking down at her notebook, thank god, and didn’t see. But Peggy and Stan did, and they shared a look of startled concern across the table.

“Now I know I’m right,” Stan said, after. “I’m going to threaten to sit on him until he tells.”

“No, I’ve got it,” Peggy said. “I know how to get him to talk.”

She ambushed him when he was walking past the women’s washroom, grabbing his arm and hip-checking him inside. Peggy had played field hockey in high school gym class. She still remembered a trick or two.

Dawn was in there, using the mirror to put on earrings. Her expression didn’t change one bit. “Peggy. Michael.”

“Going out?” Peggy asked, breezily, nothing-to-see-here. She gripped Ginsberg’s arm tighter so he couldn’t escape.

“Meeting my mother and sister for dinner,” Dawn said, closing her purse with a snap. She stepped past them delicately. “Have a nice evening. Both of you.”

“You too,” Peggy said, equally polite. Ginsberg put his hand over his face.

“Why are we in the ladies can?” he demanded once Dawn was gone. “Now she has the wrong idea.”

“We need to have a talk. And the longer it takes, the longer we’re in here. So keep that in mind.”

“You’re trying to blackmail me with the _powder room_?” he asked.

She lifted her chin and put her hands on her hips. He couldn’t get past her - she was blocking the door. “Are you going to answer my questions or not?”

“I don’t know. What are they?”

“What’s been going on with you lately? Don’t say nothing. You were falling asleep in that meeting today. Literally.”

“Can I say that it’s private?”

“Is something wrong at home?” Peggy asked, nervously. “Is your father - okay?”

“He’s fine,” Ginsberg said, and he really did look like hell, just exhausted. For the first time it occurred to Peggy that this could be a physical problem. A cold, shapeless fear shot through her.

“You’re not … you're not sick, are you?” she asked, a little shriller than she meant to be.

“No! I just haven’t been sleeping good lately. It’s - it’s not from something bad. I’m being stupid, that’s all.” He looked helplessly at her. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

He sighed, defeated, and said the last thing Peggy expected. “My father is getting married.”

 

Peggy and Stan took him out for a drink. It wasn’t fancy, just a pub that was blue with smoke and populated mostly by regulars, old men wearing flat caps and patched jackets. They were belly up to the bar, drinking stout and jawing over the newspaper. There were a couple of framed photographs of baseball players on the wall, but Peggy didn’t recognize them.

They found a booth. Ginsberg sat across from them, both hands wrapped around his untouched beer.

“So who’s he marrying?” Stan asked.

“Her name’s Rachel. She’s a nice lady, she’s from the neighbourhood.”

“Do you know her?”

“We only spoke a couple of times before this - announcement. They met at the deli.”

That was where Ginsberg’s father worked, if Peggy remembered correctly. She stubbed her cigarette out. “When is the wedding?”

“End of March.”

“That’s quick.”

“I thought so too, but - you know. They’re old.”

“She want you to call her Mom?” Stan asked with a grin.

That got a small smile out of Ginsberg, at least. “Nah. She’s got a couple of kids already. Rachel’s a widow.”

“I figured.” Stan clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not so bad, Ginzo. Weddings are generally regarded as happy things. And now your old man has a hobby, so he’ll spend less time bugging you. And as a plus - bridesmaids.”

Ginsberg rolled his eyes. “She’s not having any. Also the bride is in her fifties. I don’t think her friends are what you’re picturing, here.”

“Nothing wrong with an older woman.”

“You’re horrifying,” Peggy said.

“She’s right,” Ginsberg agreed. “She has terrible taste in men, but she’s right.”

“Hey! I was on your side, you asshole.”

“To be fair, I was insulting him too,” Ginsberg said, reasonably.

“I can dress you two up, but I cannot take you out,” Stan lamented. He ordered them another round and coaxed Ginsberg into doing a shot with him. That relaxed him enough that he finished his beer and had another, even.

“Somebody’s living it up,” Peggy said.

“We’re celebrating, aren’t we?” said Stan, lifting his glass. “To the happy union of Ginsberg’s father.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Ginsberg.

“And to Ginzo’s swinging new bachelor pad,” Stan continued, because Ginsberg told them he was going to start looking for a new place right away. No point in keeping a two bedroom if he didn’t have to, and he didn’t want a roommate. He hated the idea of living with someone he didn’t know.

He snorted at Stan’s addition. “I doubt that. It’ll probably be the same kind of dump I always lived in.”

“No way,” Peggy declared, “we’ll find you something good. I’ll help.”

“You’re nicer when you’re drinking, you know that?”

“I like you more when I’m drinking,” Peggy said, and when he grinned at her he looked like the same cocky kid who crashed and burned in that first interview. It was strange to think that was only a couple of years ago. So much had happened.

They ended up over by the jukebox. Stan picked out a song - an old Rat Pack standard, since there was nothing from the past decade there - and headed back towards the booth to square up the bill. “Be careful, Ginsberg. She gets handsy.”

“What? Oh, hell no. I can’t dance.”

“Neither can Peggy,” Stan said cheerfully. She made a rude gesture at him.

Stan was right, however. At least it was a slow song, so Peggy could just loop her arms around Ginsberg’s neck and sway back and forth. He still stepped on her foot twice, and kept his hands fixed stiffly on either side of her waist.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes, “ he admitted, with a glance back at Stan, who was flirting with the waitress in an attempt at getting a discount. “You’re good friends, both of you.”

“Don’t start crying,” Peggy warned.

“Not _that_ good of friends.” Ginsberg said dryly. “And thank you for ruining my nice moment.”

“Well, I can’t have you getting sentimental. You’ll lose your edge and I don’t want to break in another copywriter.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do without me,” Ginsberg said, loosening up, and when the song changed to something faster paced he even twirled her a little.

He waited with them while Stan tried and failed to flag down a cab. Peggy had left her ear muffs behind at the office and kept her hands clapped tight over her tingling ears. It didn’t help much.

Ginsberg took off his scarf. “Here,” he said, wrapping it carefully around Peggy’s head and tying it firmly beneath her chin. He laughed. “Now you look like somebody’s _Bubbe_.”

“Fucking finally!” Stan yelled in triumph. “Hurry up,” he waved Peggy over, holding the taxi door open. “Before he changes his mind and leaves.”

Peggy scooted over and climbed in, soaking up the warmth. It was blissful.

“You coming with?” Stan asked Ginsberg, who was still standing on the sidewalk.

“Nah,” Ginsberg said, “I’m gonna go back home. The subway is good enough for me.”

“You sure?” Stan said. “I’m officially inviting you.”

“Three’s a crowd,” Ginsberg said decisively, but there was something wistful about it too. “I’ll see you crazy kids in the morning.”

They were pulling away before Peggy remembered the scarf. It was too late - they were moving into traffic and Ginsberg was already half a block away. He had his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears to chase off the cold. He looked very small like that, Peggy noticed, and very alone.

 

“Peggy, make me a promise,” Ginsberg said, when they were taking the subway together to go look at apartments.

“What?” Peggy asked. She was reading a newspaper and, he suspected, not paying much attention.

“If I’m still at work when I’m in my eighties and I drop dead in the middle of a pitch, toss me out back in the trash. I wouldn’t deserve a grave.”

Peggy looked at him silently. She folded the newspaper, put it down on her lap, and pressed her hand to her forehead as though she was in pain. “Is this contemplation of your mortality brought on by anything specific? Or can I just ignore it?”

“Stan told me about that secretary of Don’s.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me. I’m the one who found her.” Peggy said with a little shiver. “I worry I got a glimpse into my own future that day.”

“Never. You’ll have a pile of grandkids and be on your third husband.” Whereas he was going to be that old man who talked to the bus driver the whole way home. Oh, who the hell was he kidding. He was that guy already.

“Thank you, Ginsberg.” Peggy said, opening her paper again. “And if you kick the bucket on me I’m donating your body to science, just so you know. Let them see if they can figure you out.”

“Oh no, you can’t do that,” said Ginsberg seriously. “Because I’m Jewish, so I gotta be intact, right? No scientists cutting parts off.”

Peggy exhaled, slowly, and gave him a horribly patient look. “Fine. A dumpster it is. In fact, I’m imagining it right now.” She returned to her article with a vengeance.

“What are you reading?” he asked, after a moment.

“I need five minutes of complete quiet.”

“What for?”

“Shhhh. Five minutes.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, bewildered. “I can do that.”

He checked his watch about three minutes in. She kicked him in the ankle, which wasn’t really fair.

They were met at the front door by a hippie girl so obviously baked that Ginsberg was surprised she remembered the appointment. She wasn’t wearing shoes either, which couldn’t be a good idea, but they were her feet and therefore her business so he didn’t say anything.

The whole place smelled strongly of grass. She led them up a set of creaky stairs, telling them all about how unfair it was that the city wouldn’t let them turn it into a co-op, but not to worry because they weren’t establishment anyhow.

The apartment was a little small. According to Peggy it was a _lot_ small.

“You can’t even stand in front of the oven and open it, because there’s no room,” she complained, demonstrating in case they didn’t get the idea.

“How much do I cook in the first place?” Ginsberg asked.

“You still need the option. And why isn’t there a fire escape? This is the fifth floor - you can’t just climb out the window in case of emergency.”

“Whoa. Your girlfriend is bossy, dude.” The hippie girl whispered, not very quietly.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Ginsberg said conspiratorially, and he could feel Peggy’s glare bouncing off the back of his head.

The next apartment was in a bad neighbourhood, so Peggy insisted he cross it off his list. “You think I’m living in the Ritz now?” he said, but did it anyway.

The previous inhabitants of number three had been heavy smokers, and the yellow streaked walls and miasma of _eau de ashtray_ was too much even for him. Another one down.

Four showed serious promise until a rat darted out from inside a closet and ran across Peggy’s foot. She shrieked like a siren and damn near climbed up Ginsberg’s back.

“He’s more afraid of you than you are of him.”

Ginsberg’s attempt at soothing her went over like a lead balloon. “Good,” she hissed, huddling into him with a shudder, perhaps planning to use him as a kind of human shield. “Is it gone?”

“A rat or two never hurt anybody.”

“Tell that to victims of the bubonic plague!” As far as she was concerned that settled the matter, and she spent the next five minutes describing all the diseases that rats carried to drive the point home.

Still, Ginsberg remained fairly upbeat about the whole thing until an incident at the final apartment soured his good mood.

It was a real nice place. Lots of space, big sunny windows, no untoward stains or odors or patches of mold in the bathroom. He could imagine himself living here easily. Even Peggy liked it.

Then the landlord - a big beefy guy with thinning red hair - asked him, “What’d you say your name was, again?”

“Michael Ginsberg. No relation to Allen.”

“Huh,” the guy said, and looked dubiously at Ginsberg out of the corner of his eye, “so then you’re -”

“One of the chosen people,” Ginsberg said, flatly, because he knew where this was going already, didn’t have to second guess himself once. “And?”

“Oh, nothin’. I was wondering, is all.”

Sure he was. And Ginsberg was going to be running for President come the next election.

“I won’t be waiting by the phone for that call,” he told Peggy after they left.

“If it helps at all,” Peggy said, “I think he has gout. Which means that the Lord is punishing him, or so my mother would have me believe.”

That did cheer him up some, but he was still tired and annoyed when he got home. Of course this meant they had company over.

“Rachel,” he said, plastering a fake smile on and hoping it sold. There was no chance. He couldn’t see whatever gruesome contortion his face was doing, but he could feel it. He couldn’t even fool himself.

“Michael,” she said, her voice faltering, and hugged him in that way people do when they’re trying to touch someone as little as possible. “How was your day?”

“It was fine,” he said, “I went looking for an apartment. Didn’t find one - you know how it is. Where’s Pop?”

“He went to the corner store with the kids. Had to get some milk.”

With Rachel’s mention of “the kids” Ginsberg’s hope of salvaging the evening died an ugly death. If Jake and Beth were here then there was no way he could hide in his room like he wanted.

The table was set for five and there were pots bubbling away on the stovetop . They must have borrowed some chairs from the neighbours. “You didn’t eat yet?”

“We wanted to wait for you.”

He had almost grabbed a bite with Peggy. Now he regretted saying no and cutting off his own escape route.

He made nervous small talk with Rachel until his father got back. He couldn’t relax around her. It wasn’t her fault - she was a nice person, and she went out of her way to treat him well. He knew he wasn’t making it easy.

But it was so strange, this sudden expansion that rearranged the borders of his life. He didn’t know how to have a stepmother, or brothers and sisters. Most days he barely understood how to be a son.

The Ginsbergs had always been a party of two. It had never occurred to him that might change.

Morris came back in with a big smile on his face, and right there was the one thing making this situation bearable. Ginsberg could keep his mouth shut for his father’s sake. He’d never say it was easy, but he could do it.

And keep doing it, he thought, as he helped Rachel dish up the food. For as long as it took.

 

That night Ginsberg couldn’t sleep. It was no surprise.

He got like this on occasion. The source of his anxiety of the moment was obvious, but these moods could be triggered by just about anything - a tragedy in the newspaper, a bad day at work, thinking too hard on what the h-bomb would do to a person.

It was worse in the dark. He thought it had something to do with the loneliness of it, the lack of anything to focus on.There was nothing to distract him from the runaway train inside his head, and it would just keep going and going until the only thing he could hear was the frantic pounding of his own heart.

When he was very small he used to hide under the bed when he got scared. Which happened quite a bit, if his father’s stories of finding him asleep under there were any indication. Too bad he wouldn’t fit anymore.

He tossed and turned for a couple of hours before throwing in the towel. The apartment was dark when he left his room and he just turned on the T.V. for some light - he didn’t want to wake his father up.

He got the saucepan out, poured some milk into it, and groped along the top of the stove for the matches. Warm milk wasn’t going to knock him out unless he slipped a mickey in it, but it was comforting.

“Turn on a light before you set yourself on fire,” Morris said, tying up his bathrobe as he came out of his bedroom.

“I was trying to keep quiet. So much for that.” Ginsberg lit the burner and got the milk going. “Do you want any of this?”

“No.” Morris shut the T.V. off and turned on the kitchen light. He took a seat at the table. “And it wasn’t you. I’m up because people my age have to use the washroom five times in a night. Oh, laugh now,” he said, because Ginsberg had, “but this will be you someday.”

“I know it,” Ginsberg said, pouring the finished milk into a mug.

“Don’t put any sugar in that,” His father warned. “It will only keep you up.”

“I wasn’t gonna. And I doubt if it would make it any worse.”

“Bad dream?”

They were both prone to them. In Ginsberg’s case there were downsides to having a vivid imagination and for Morris - well. He didn’t talk about it. Not in any kind of detail. They had spent many nights this way, trying to chase away what lurked behind their closed eyes. Morris taught Ginsberg how to play cards between the hours of midnight and two in the morning. He told stories about the old country, the nice ones - what the food was like, how his mother had a beautiful singing voice. Their nocturnal get-togethers had happened before, and they would happen again -

No. They wouldn’t - not with the wedding coming up. In all likelihood this was the last time.

The hard fact of it made Ginsberg’s throat go tight, and he didn’t trust himself to speak. He kept his back turned until the feeling passed.

“No,” he said, sounding about a million years old. “I’m just having an episode. You know how I get.”

“You’re worrying yourself sick about that apartment, is what you’re doing.” Morris said. “I told you already that you can stay with Rachel and me until you find one.”

“No,” Ginsberg said, sitting down across from his father. No, no and no. He was not about to go live with the lovebirds. “I’ll find something.”

“That sick of your father, huh?” Morris said. It was a joke but it wasn’t.

“Aw, Pop, come on. You know that isn’t why.”

“I know, I know,” Morris said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “Just don’t go halfway across the earth, please.”

“New York isn’t _that_ big.”

“Well, it’s big enough. People lose track of each other for less.”

“What do you think I’ll do, just never speak to you again? Who else do I have to occupy my time?”

“But that’s what bothers me. I worry about you spending so much time alone.”

“I can look after myself!”

“Michael,” his father said gently, “I know that. I’m not trying to insult you. But I’m going to worry about you. That’s what a parent does. I know I’ve -” Morris passed a hand over his careworn face, and continued apologetically, “I’ve pushed you too hard, about the girls and so on.”

Ginsberg stared at him. He had never admitted that before.

“But it’s because I want you to be cared for. I want you to have a good life. Everyone wants that for their children. But,” Morris stood up, groaning when his knees popped, “it has to be _your_ life. Believe it or not, I do understand that.”

He put his hand on Ginsberg’s head, a gesture that was an old leftover from childhood. “You’re a grown man now, but you’ll always be my boy. Family is all a man has in this world, Michael. So let your old man fuss. It gives me something to do.”

Ginsberg nodded, silently. His voice was gone again. Funny, that.

“And now I’m going to drag these bones off to bed. Don’t stay up all night.”

“I won’t,” Ginsberg promised. He stayed for some time at the table, reading the classifieds in the newspaper, but never did finish the milk. It turned out he didn’t need it.

 

He didn’t find an apartment the next week, or the one after that. They got busy at work - some new business came in - and he tried to help his father out with the wedding as much as he could. Peggy was a whirlwind - she called rental offices on her breaks and checked the listings in the paper every day. The lack of success made her very frustrated. She hated losing, which he could understand.

It didn’t help that she had Don the Second on her ass about every little thing. Ginsberg lost his temper one afternoon and told him to go to hell - that asshole didn’t get to talk to her like that - and they both got reprimanded and sat sulking in Peggy’s office after, while Stan just shook his head at them.

Eventually he told a white lie, saying that he had a lead on a place. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate what she was doing for him. He just didn’t want her to go through this much trouble on his behalf. She had so many other demands on her time.

He lost track of the date until one day in the breakroom Dawn asked him how the search was going and he said, “ _Fuck_ , I completely forgot about that,” at her.

She didn’t take offense. Dawn was good like that.

“But isn’t your father’s wedding very soon?” she asked.

“In two weeks.” He was going to end up a third wheel after all. God, what a nightmare. Maybe he could stay with Stan.

“You could put an ad downstairs,” Dawn suggested. “I’m sure there must be someone looking for a roommate.”

What would that be like? He couldn’t imagine it lasting long, and that was if anybody was crazy enough to let him move in. He didn’t interview well. “I can’t see that working. I’m kind of an acquired taste.”

She looked at him in this incredibly pitying way, which was embarrassing, so he changed the subject.

Dawn didn’t forget about it, though. She said something to Peggy, who barged into his office that afternoon.

“I think I have a solution,” she said.

“Good.” Ginsberg threw down his pen. “Because I don’t know anything about babies.”

Peggy eyed him with trepidation. “Okay. I’m going to assume that’s a non-sequitur of some kind. And that there are no actual babies involved. Please tell me there are no babies involved, because finding you an apartment is hard enough.”

“Baby powder, Peggy.” he said, because she was the one who snagged the account in the first place. “What is it even for? It goes on their behinds, right?”

“I’m not here to talk about baby powder.” She pulled a chair over. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re about to be homeless?”

“I’m not about to be _homeless_ ,” he scoffed. “Just… between homes. I can live with Pop and Rachel if I have to.”

“But you don’t want to. Why did you lie to me about it?” She looked more hurt than irritated, and he didn’t intend for that to happen. He was trying to make things easier for her.

“You have so much to do, what with Don being gone. I didn’t want to add to it.” He paused, and then got at the heart of it. “And I should be able to solve my own problems.”

“Now you’re just being stupid.”

“Peggy!”

“Well, you are,” she said, exasperated. “Ginsberg, this is what friendship is. This is what friends are for. They help you out when you need it.”

“Oh,” he said. “I didn’t think of that.”

“I forgive you,” she said. “And more than that - I have an idea.” She had a vacancy in her building, she explained. He could move in there, and stay if he liked the place. If he didn’t it would work as a temporary base of operations until he found an apartment that better suited him. “But you have to pay your rent on time,” she warned. “I mean it.”

“Peggy?” Ginsberg asked, solemnly.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to hug you.”

He did, at least until she pushed him off with a giggle. “You’re a nutcase,” she said, but she didn’t mean it. He could tell.

 

He moved in the next weekend. Stan helped him drag furniture around while Peggy unpacked boxes. He didn’t have a couch or coffee table yet and the T.V. was on a milk crate, but he was pleased with the results all the same.

He and Stan came out of the bedroom, arguing about the bed. “I know you’re elf sized, but that’s no excuse for sleeping in a twin,” Stan said. “And it looks like came from a prison. How are you supposed to bring a girl back to that?”

“It’s a perfectly fine bed - don’t start with me about girls - and I am _not_ elf sized.”

“Yes, you are,” Peggy said. She was sitting crosslegged on the floor, one of Ginsberg’s photo albums opened across her knees.

“No,” said Ginsberg, aghast. “Give me that!” He tried to grab it from her but she slapped his hand away.

“I’m not finished yet,” she said, and turned to Stan with sparkling eyes. “Want to see a picture of a baby Ginsberg?”

“I think he still has that jacket,” Stan remarked. “You look completely tragic, Ginzo. Like something from Dickens.”

Ginsberg looked. It was more apt than Stan knew. That was the picture from the orphanage - the one they had sent to his father. It had ‘Mikael, 4” written on the back.

He had been such a serious faced, beetle-browed kid. “I just hate having my picture taken. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not photogenic people,” Stan said, and Peggy curled forward, laughing.

“Does this mean I get to see your old pictures?” Ginsberg asked with interest.

“No,” they said at the same time.

“You couple of jerks.” Ginsberg scowled at them. “Go back to your own apartments.”

“You can’t kick me out,” Peggy said. “I’m your landlady.”

“That isn’t how that works.” Ginsberg sat down next to her, interjecting the occasional comment as she browsed through years of homemade haircuts and stiffly posed school pictures.

He wanted to invite them to the wedding. They belonged there, somehow, even though he couldn’t have explained why he thought that. It was an instinct, like chasing down just the right angle for an ad. He considered and rejected several methods of doing this because it was all hallmark bullshit. _It would mean a lot to me_ and _I’d like my best friends to_ _be there_ and _I don’t want to go alone_.

What actually came out of his mouth was: “So are you coming to the wedding or not?”

They looked at him in surprise.

“You can say no,” he said quickly.

“Of course we aren’t going to say no!” Peggy said. “It was just unexpected.”

“Oh,” said Ginsberg, pleased. “Okay. Good.”

“I for one am not going to pass up a chance to see you in formalwear,” said Stan. “Or to take pictures to hand out at work.”

“Right,” Ginsberg said, mostly to himself. “Formalwear. You need that for a wedding.”

“Forgot to get a suit, didn’t you?” Stan asked nonchalantly.

“Yes,” Ginsberg admitted. “But I can wear one of my work jackets.”

“Like hell you can,” Peggy said. “Stan, take him to go buy a suit. A decent one. And a shirt that actually matches something on this planet.”

“But -”

Stan raised his eyebrows. “Are you seriously asking me to take Ginsberg shopping.”

“No, I’m begging you.”

“I suppose that settles it,” said Stan. “No work clothes allowed. Especially your work clothes.”

“I regret moving in already,” Ginsberg complained, more content than he had been in ages.

 

The morning of the wedding Ginsberg got up early. He wanted to make sure he had time to confront any small emergencies that might arise, such as bad traffic or misplacing his keys or accidently setting his pants on fire.

The day was grey but mild. He opened a window to check if it felt like rain and listened to the radio while he ate breakfast. He wasn’t used to the quiet yet.

After he showered he dithered in the bathroom, staring at his reflection, and finally thought _to hell with it_ and reached for the razor. He shaved carefully and slowly to avoid cutting himself and generally succeeded. His upper lip was little sore, but that was it.

Stan opened to door when Ginsberg knocked. He put a hand on his chest, like a society lady with the vapors. “You look like real boy. I feel so proud.”

Peggy poked her head out from the bedroom. Her face was made up but her hair was still in rollers, and she was wearing a nightgown. “Oh, thank god,” she said when she saw Ginsberg. “You were starting to look like Groucho Marx. Also, your tie is crooked.” Then she returned to her toilette. Ginsberg could hear her spritzing perfume, or possibly hairspray.

“I’m going to marry that woman,” Stan said, and fixed Ginsberg’s tie for him.

“Do you have a handkerchief with you?” Peggy asked, coming out and patting at her hair. She looked real cute in her little white hat. He didn’t know how she had gotten ready so fast. Girls were a mystery.

“No. Why?”

“It’s a wedding,” she said, as though that was self explanatory.

Ginsberg didn’t take a handkerchief. He didn’t think he would need it.

He needed it.

He held it together until the breaking of the glass. After that he was a goner, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

Peggy waved him over when Morris and Rachel left for the yichud. She was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. It had scalloped edges. “I told you,” she sniffed, and handed it to him. He took it gratefully. Stan squeezed his shoulder, and he was grateful for that too.

Nobody had jumped up to object to the marriage or dropped dead in the middle of the ceremony or left anybody at the altar. It was perfect.

At the reception Ginsberg introduced Stan and Peggy to all the notables - of which there weren’t many, since the wedding was small. There was Beverly Farber and her parents, the Bronsteins, a few people from the neighborhood that Ginsberg had grown up with. Some of them had kids already, families of their own, wives or husbands that he had never met.

He didn’t know most of Rachel’s family, but of course there was Beth and Jake. Stan and Jake immediately got into a conversation about - football, maybe? Some sports team. He and Peggy couldn’t make heads or tails of it, so they went to bother the groom instead.

“Pop, you remember Peggy,” Ginsberg said.

Morris beamed at her and took her hand. “Of course I do.”

She went up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Congratulations, Mr. Ginsberg. And you look so handsome!”

“Cheap flattery,” Ginsberg stage whispered, but it was no use. She’d had the old man wrapped around her little finger from the moment they met.

She gave him a chastising look. “The ceremony was beautiful. I haven’t enjoyed a wedding this much since my sister got married.”

Dinner was over and Hava Nagila was starting up. People were starting to file out onto the dance floor. Stan came over, apparently finished with football talk.

“Ever danced the hora, Peggy?” Ginsberg asked.

“Oh, no. No, I don’t know how to do that,” she said. “I’m going to sit this one out.”

“Nope,” said Ginsberg.

“What -” she said in consternation, but Stan and Ginsberg hustled her out onto the floor, each holding one arm.

“It’s easy,” Ginsberg said. “Turning in a circle and kicking out your legs. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

Peggy was muttering something under her breath. He thought he caught the word “fired” in there. But she linked hands with them and really threw herself into it once they got going, cheeks pink with exertion.

“See,” he said, as they spun around. “I knew you’d like it.”

“I admit nothing,” she said, with a big laugh.

He went outside to get some air afterwards, overheated by the dancing. The cool air was a relief, and he wasn’t the only one who thought so - Beverly Farber was out there already, leaning back against the wall.

She had a cigarette in her mouth and when she saw him she looked first startled, and then guilty. “Don’t tell my mother,” she said, lighting her cigarette. “She thinks I quit.”

He grinned and held up his hand. “Scout’s honor.” She looked great, in a green dress and with her hair down.

“I like your suit,” she said.

He looked down at himself. “I had nothing to do with it. You can blame my friend Stan.”

“You’re looking well,” she said, blowing out smoke. “I mean in general.”

“Thanks,” he said, awkward. “Last time we saw each other it - it wasn’t a good day.” Not for anyone.

“No kidding,” she said, obviously thinking along the same lines.

“So is that guy with you your boyfriend?” he asked, changing the subject.

She ducked her head and smiled. It was a private smile, not about their conversation, but triggered by a memory or an image that only she could see. “Yes. And he isn’t Jewish, but don’t tell my mother that either.”

“Hey, I brought two of ‘em with me,” he said. “That’s gotta be worse, right?”

She smiled again, and ground her cigarette under her heel. “Lets hope so. I’ll use you as a distraction if I get caught.” She gestured towards the door. “I’m going to go give my love to the newlyweds.”

“Sure,” he said, but she paused before going in and came back. He glanced at her quizzically.

She kissed him on the cheek. “Take care, Michael.”

“You too,” he said, and watched her go inside. Then he settled back against the wall, rolling his shoulders and feeling the texture of the stucco through his jacket.

The clouds were breaking up and sunlight was spilling through. He could smell springtime in the air, could feel it coming on in his bones. It was going to be a beautiful day.

 

It was almost funny, how quickly he adjusted to his new set of circumstances. All that worrying for nothing. He never had it so easy. He gave Peggy and Stan majority of the credit - they were comfortable people to be around, and against all odds they weren’t sick of his mug yet.

Stan was at Peggy’s place more often than not, and the three of them went in to work together most of the time. Peggy was hilariously grouchy in the mornings, stumbling around needing coffee, and Ginsberg discovered that if he had a pot ready before she came out of the bathroom he was in her good graces the rest of the day.

Her cat - he was called Ginger - followed him around until he either got a scratch on the head or a treat. Peggy kept saying he and Stan were making the cat lazy and complacent, but Ginger still left dead critters in Peggy’s shoes with comforting regularity.

When she needed time alone she sent Stan down to Ginsberg. “She kicked me out,” Stan would say, standing in the hallway all pretend-mournful. He came over to watch baseball, too, because Peggy hated sports. Ginsberg did as well but Stan didn’t let that bother him.

“You never watched baseball with your father?” he asked, having stolen the armchair. At least he brought beer.

“No,” Ginsberg said, “he likes it, though.”

“But you don’t.”

“I know it comes as a great surprise,” Ginsberg told him, “but I have never been the athletic type.” Nearly every memory in that vein was scarring, including falling on his face while trying to climb that fucking rope in gym. He had split his lip and was lucky that he didn’t knock a tooth loose.

“My father loved baseball. He made sure to take us to a game no matter where we were. Even if it was only at the high school.”

Stan was a military brat and his family had moved around a lot. Ginsberg once asked him what his father’s thoughts had been on his son doing something so different from the family business - it could be hard out there for an artist, there was no guarantee of steady work. Stan had smiled wryly, looked off to the side, and said, “I don’t think it being unsteady is what bothered him, Ginzo.” And he hadn’t said anything after that.

“Did he bring your sisters, too?” Ginsberg asked. “Or just you and your brother?”

“It wouldn’t have occurred to him to bring the girls.” Stan took a swallow of his beer and thought about it. “We should go see a game. It’ll be fun.”

“Sure,” said Ginsberg, unconvinced. He still didn’t understand what was so gripping about watching a bunch of guys run around a field and throw a ball back and forth.

One saturday in mid-June Stan called him in the morning, expressing astonishment that Ginsberg was awake already.

“It’s almost noon. I’m not a complete deadbeat,” Ginsberg said, voice muffled from the scrap of fabric he was holding between his teeth. He was sitting at the kitchen table in his boxers, patching a jacket. The whirr of the sewing machine made Stan hard to hear.

“Unlock your door,” he said. “I’m coming down.”

Ginsberg did, and when the door opened he was focused on fixing a tangled stitch.

“Well, isn’t this _precious_ ,” Stan drawled.

“You do chores,” Ginsberg said without looking up, unembarrassed. “I don’t see how this is any different.”

“The difference is I look manly as hell when I do them. Don’t I, Peggy?”

“What,” Ginsberg said, and there was Peggy standing in his doorway, looking like her birthday had come early. She was wearing shorts and had her hair tied back in a blue kerchief.

“Stan, go get my camera,” Peggy said. “I want a picture.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Peggy was coming?” Ginsberg demanded. “I would have put pants on.”

“Speaking of,” Stan said, “go get dressed. We’re going fishing.”

“What,’ said Ginsberg again.

Fifteen minutes later they were on the road in a car borrowed from Stan’s brother-in-law. Ginsberg barely had time to brush his teeth and pull on some clothes. His hair was still nuts from sleeping - Peggy told him he looked like a mushroom cloud. Then she took a nap, and didn’t wake up even when Stan and Ginsberg started arguing over the radio.

Stan was looking for a particular pond, though it looked about the same as the dozen they had passed on the way there. Water, reeds, a couple of ducks.

Peggy opened the car door first, stretching her legs out and flexing her toes. She looked fantastic in those shorts, which Ginsberg immediately felt guilty for noticing.

They only had one fishing rod between them. Stan insisted on showing Ginsberg how to cast. “Land a fish and I’ll leave you alone,” he said.

Ginsberg would have been happy if he could just get the hook in the water. He caught a tree branch, some rocks and finally his own pant leg.

Peggy scrambled away from him, ducking her head. “You’re going to get someone in the eye!”

“You keep letting go way too soon,” Stan said, wrapping his hands around Ginsberg’s. “Like this - see? Not until you get over the water.” He demonstrated, moving the rod with a practiced flick. They went through it a few times until Ginsberg got the hang of it.

“Aren’t you gonna show Peggy?” he asked once he got bored with not getting any bites. The fish were either skittish or shy.

“Peggy already knows how to fish,” she said, and took the rod from him. When the line went taut she elbowed him in the side, smugly. Show-off.

She pulled in a fish too small to keep and made Stan pick it up and put it back, on account of it being too gross to touch.

“Wimp,” Ginsberg said, and she flicked a worm from the bait tin at him. Why she had a problem with fish but not worms he didn’t know.

“No violence, Peggy,” Stan said while putting bait on the hook.

“He deserves it.”

“Do not.”

“Do _too_.”

“Go fight someplace else,” said Stan. “You’re scaring away the fish.”

They walked around the edge of the pond, watching the fish jump for bugs and dragonflies skim along the water. There was a whole crowd of frogs clustered in the grass, buggy eyed little things that were speckled brown like sparrow’s eggs. They climbed fearlessly onto the toe of Ginsberg’s shoe when he went near, hopping off into the water with a splash.

“Don’t pick any of them up,” Peggy said, “you’ll get warts.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Ginsberg said, but he decided to err on the side of caution and nudged them towards the waterline with his foot. He didn’t want them to get stepped on.

Peggy sat down on the ground and started plucking daisies up and braiding their thin stems together. The grass was dry from the heat but dotted with blooms, dandelions and bluebells and sweet-smelling clover.

“You’re getting your clothes dirty,” Ginsberg said. Personally he thought it would be a tragedy if she ruined those shorts.

“Who cares?” she said. “Quit hovering and sit down.”

When he did she poked one of her flowers into his hair. “There,” she said. “Now you’re beautiful.”

“I’m not your doll, Peggy.”

“Sure you are,” she said, playing with his hair. It kind of felt nice so he didn’t tell her to stop. “I might like this look on you. Very fluffy.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.” Maybe he was turning red. He was sure it was a sunburn. Yeah, a sunburn.

It was time to eat when they got back to Stan. They ate sandwiches out of a cooler and drank coke, and afterward just lazed around. Stan lay back with his head in Peggy’s lap with his eyes closed. He hadn’t caught anything and blamed them for cursing him.

“Are you sure I’m not better at fishing than you?” Peggy said. “That’s the obvious explanation.”

“Fine. You can tie me some flies when we get home.”

“Shut up,” she said fondly.

It did something to him when they were together like that, relaxed and affectionate. Gave him an ache in his chest that was almost as much pleasure as pain, and he didn’t know what that meant. He only knew that he had to be careful about it, that he had to look away quickly or he would stare too long.

When they were done exploring nature they piled into the car and went up to this little town that Stan knew. There was a secondhand store open and it was filled with junk from the forties. Peggy found a clock she liked and an unopened bottle of perfume she swore would still be good. Stan’s aunt had lived up the road when he was a kid and he walked them around showing them the sights - the baseball diamond he played on when he stayed with her, the general store that had the best flavours of ice cream, a statue of the town’s founder that was decked out with graffiti; including a rude sketch by a very young Stanley Rizzo.

They drove home in fading sunlight with the windows wide open. Peggy pulled off her bandana and let the wind take her hair, tossing it all around. She grinned at Stan when he combed it back with the hand not on the steering wheel. Ginsberg was sitting sideways, feet up on the seat and facing the window, but he wasn’t looking outside. He was looking at them, at the way the gold of the sinking sun lit up their faces, and he wished that Peggy had brought her camera after all.

 

On July 20th man walked on the moon and Ginsberg spent the rest of the week with his head in the clouds.

He had watched with his father and Rachel, all three of them sitting on her old floral couch. Ginsberg couldn’t speak for anyone else but he held his breath the whole time. It was too unreal to be believed, science fiction playing out right before his eyes. It looped through his head all night, those three astronauts all the way up there with nothing between them and the great nothing but some flimsy metal.

The next day he was dog-tired from staying up late watching the broadcast. So was everyone else, and none of them could stop talking about it.

“What would happen if they got stuck?” Hagan asked.

“They’d die,” Stan answered. He was drawing the Apollo spacecraft, crosshatching it with ink.

“I don’t see the big deal, personally,” Mathis said with a careless shrug. “It’s a big rock in the sky. Nothing special.”

“Does anything make you happy?” Ginsberg asked, but even Mathis couldn’t put a dent in his good mood. Humankind had made it to the _moon_. Who knew where they could go from there. Mars, Jupiter, outside the milky way. Who knew what they would find.

“There’s gonna be a lot of space stuff in my work now,” he warned Peggy when they were in the elevator together. “So be prepared.”

“Mine too,” she said with a smile. “Probably everyone’s.” Then she frowned a little, her practicality taking over. “Maybe we should avoid it, actually. It might become too common.”

“We’ll see,” said Ginsberg, because he was too giddy to argue.

Things settled down after that but Ginsberg carried that feeling around with him like a protective talisman. He didn’t want to let it go. He sang in the shower and opened doors for secretaries at work and helped Mathis with a pitch he was struggling on. Which Mathis didn’t appreciate, but who cared.

Maybe that was why, when he saw Peggy and Stan wrapped around each other that weekend, he reacted the way he did.

He was bringing his laundry out, the basket propped against his hip, and stopped short just past his door. Stan had Peggy backed up against the wall outside her apartment. They were kissing, pressed together and oblivious to anything else. Stan had his hands wrapped around her thighs, pulling her up onto her tiptoes, and Ginsberg could see the strain in his arms and her bare legs from where he was standing. She had her fingers clutched in Stan’s hair, dragging him down to her mouth, making these noises that were soft and demanding all at once and -

And Ginsberg crept back into his apartment, horrified at himself.

They hadn’t seen him. Either God had some special love for creeps or he was very lucky. What the hell was wrong with him, watching like that?

But they hadn’t seen him. It would be okay.

Too bad he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

If it had been any other time - if the world hadn’t just been split open with gorgeous, searing possibility - he might have been able to let it go. To forget the ridiculous longing seeing them together provoked in him, the drumbeat of his heart saying _I want I want I want_. Instead the memory stuck to the inside of his head like chewing gum in hair.

Little details assaulted him at the most aggravating moments. Peggy’s skirt riding up when she pushed her hips against Stan. The tension across his shoulders, like he was holding himself back from fucking her right there.

Worst of all were the dreams. His traitorous brain helpfully filled in what he didn’t know and invented what he _couldn’t_ know. The background kept changing. Sometimes they were in the office, in the creative lounge or the boardroom. Sometimes it was Peggy’s bedroom. Most of the time Ginsberg was just an observer, but occasionally - occasionally he was right there with them, doing things he had never done before in his life.

Those were the nights he woke up sweating and humping the sheets in desperation. Not even his self-disgust could stop him from stroking off, fist pumping frantically and biting the pillow to keep quiet - an old habit that was hard to shake.

Afterwards he told himself that he would never do that again, he would never think of them like that again. Until the next time he reached for himself in the dark, eyes closed so he could picture them as clearly as possible.

He was completely out of control and he hated it. It wasn’t new information, that he was capable of looking at men and women in the same way. He had known that about himself since high school, when he used to sit on the bleachers at lunch and pretend to read comic books but actually watch Billy Doyle run around the track.

This was different. He couldn’t blame it on hormones - it was much more than that.

Ginsberg didn’t know when he started noticing how blue Peggy’s eyes were or how pleasantly solid Stan was built. He didn’t know when he had started enjoying it so much when they touched him, Stan’s hand on his shoulder or Peggy poking him in the ribs because he’d sassed her. He hoarded those touches up because they were accidental, they could never be anything else, and one day they might stop.

The guilt tainted everything. It made him try to hide from them, and Stan called him on it. They were in Peggy’s apartment and were supposed to be celebrating a work victory. She was in the bathroom washing her face, Stan was pouring champagne and Ginsberg was trying to sneak out the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Stan asked. “Get back here.”

Ginsberg sighed, but did as he was told. “I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

“What?” Stan said. “This was your campaign. Even Peggy will admit that.”

“I’m not sure I’m up for it tonight.”

Stan looked at him steadily and put the bottle down. “Are you trying to avoid us?”

“No,” Ginsberg said, instantly paranoid. Oh god, what did he know. “No, I just - I thought you might want some time alone. That’s all.”

“Huh.”

“What. What does that mean?” Ginsberg asked, searching Stan’s face for evidence of any revelation.

“Nothing,” Stan said, nonchalant. He went back to pouring the champagne. “If we want time alone we aren’t shy about telling you to get out, so don’t worry about it. And sit down or you’ll make Peggy sad.”

“Make Peggy sad how?” she asked, walking into the kitchen.

Stan wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Ginzo’s trying to run out on us.”

“You don’t want to to at least stay for a drink?” she asked, and she really did look disappointed.

What he wanted was to follow Peggy and Stan into the living room and let Ginger curl up on his lap and stay there with them all night.

“We’re going to order food,” Peggy wheedled. “And I know you don’t have anything in your cupboards but crackers and canned soup.”

It was selfish, but - he could have this, couldn’t he? This one little thing. Just spending time with them. They didn’t have to know about his… predilections.

“Sure,” he said. “What the hell. Forget what I said before.”

He wasn’t the first guy in history to want somebody he couldn’t have. And if this was all he ever got -

He could live with that.

 

It was Ginsberg’s freakout - squirrelly little oddball that he was - that got Stan thinking.

“You think we spend too much time with Ginzo?” he asked Peggy one night in bed. She was reading some book Joan had lent her.

Peggy frowned, which could have been at him or at the book. She hadn’t looked up. “Do you want him around less?”

“No,” said Stan, and it was an honest answer. The truth was that he had stopped getting annoyed with Ginsberg ages ago. It felt off when he wasn’t there, making Peggy coffee or dragging a feather across the floor for Ginger to chase. He supposed it was growing up in a big family that made him so amenable to the situation. He was used to having people in close quarters and the noise and commotion that came from that. “Just something he said.”

“Did he decide we don’t like him or something?” Peggy said. “Just give him time to calm down. He has these random bouts of insecurity. I’ll talk to him if he keeps it up.”

Stan nodded. Ginsberg was a flake, but he was their flake. Problem solved, he decided, and pulled the book out of Peggy’s hands.

“I didn’t mark my page!” she said in protest, but forgot all about it when he went down on her.

There were times when having Ginsberg as unofficial backup was a blessing. When news of Sharon Tate’s murder broke they all huddled together, listening to the radio. The headlines were horrible - screaming about blood and killers still on the loose - and even Peggy was bothered.

“I’m going to call the L.A. office,” she said. She spoke to Pete and got Megan’s number from someplace as well. Everyone was fine and she told them to be careful. It was all they could do.

Stan had plans for dinner. He was meeting his roommate from college; hadn’t seen him in years.

“You sure you don’t want me to cancel?” he asked Peggy before he left.

“We’re not even on the same coast ,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Still, leaving her by herself made him uncomfortable. He cut the evening’s revelry short and took a cab home.

Peggy was waiting up for him when he got there, and she wasn’t alone. She and Ginsberg were playing cards at the kitchen table.

“Honey, I’m home,” Stan announced, and kissed her.

“I heard a noise,” she said sheepishly.

Stan grinned at Ginsberg. “Hi, honey,” he said, kissed him on the forehead, and then ruffled his hair for good measure.

Ginsberg’s face went red with indignation. “Shit like that is why the neighbors look at me funny.”

“Shit like you being yourself is why the neighbors look at you funny,” Stan shot back.

Ginsberg slept on their couch that night. He always wanted people nearby when the world showed its cracks.

The following week Peggy caught a flu that everyone had been passing around the office. In her, though, it mutated - she was much sicker than anybody else had been, feverish and congested. She looked like a consumptive Victorian heroine.

She tried to work through it, of course, because Peggy could never admit she had a limit ever. Stan and Ginsberg had to gang up on her to get her to go home and rest.

Stan had been gentle, easing her into the idea, appealing to her sense of responsibility. “We can take care of things here. And do you want to spread the plague to everyone else? This place already looks like a quarantine ward.”

Ginsberg, meanwhile, jumped right in. “If you die of the flu because you won’t go home I will put it on your goddamn tombstone.”

She took the rest of the day off, begrudgingly.

Stan and Ginsberg left work early to check up on her. She hadn’t picked up the phone when Stan had called, and when he arrived at the apartment to find the door not just unlocked but _open_ he went cold with fear.

“Peggy?” He said, trying to keep it together. She was slumped over on the couch, still in her work clothes and there was a broken glass lying on the floor. Orange juice was streaked across the hardwood.

“Holy shit,” said Ginsberg. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“Wait,” said Stan, because Ginsberg was going for the phone already. He knelt next to the couch, looking for a pulse - Jesus fucking Christ - on the side of her neck. “Can you hear me, Peggy?”

She twitched and opened her eyes. “Stan?” she asked, her voice hoarse, and he helped her sit up. Her skin was clammy and her hair wet with sweat, but she wasn’t hot to the touch - the fever had broken. “I must have fallen asleep”.

“Come on,” He said, tucking an arm around her and lifting her to her feet. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

He took her into the bathroom and filled the tub with warm water. She shivered when he stripped off her clothes and when she eased herself into the bath, holding his steadying arm.

“My skin feels over-sensitive,” she said as he washed her back.

“You left the door wide open,” Stan said. “How out of it were you?”

“More out of it than I thought.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. The lighting in the bathroom drained her of what little color she’d had, making the tiny blue veins in her wrists stark and vivid, like they had been drawn on with pen.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Stan said. The adrenaline was fading and he was beginning to get pissed off. She could be so stubborn, and for no good reason. He would always watch her back but there were days when it seemed like he was the only one who knew that. “Why’d you fight me so hard on going home? That was a stupid thing to do.”

“I know,” she said, and looked like she meant it. “I won’t do it again.”

“Is that a promise?”

She nodded and bit her lip. He squeezed the washcloth over her head, dousing her.

“Hey!”

“Pathetic,” he said fondly. “Like the cat when he gets a bath.”

He was drying her off when Ginsberg tapped on the door. “Guys?” he called, louder than needed. “I got a nightgown and stuff for Peggy.”

Peggy wrapped herself in a towel and Stan opened the door just a crack. Ginsberg was covering his eyes with one hand and holding a bundle of clothing out with the other.

“Door’s not transparent, you know.” Stan handed the clothes back to Peggy. A nightgown, a pair of slippers and a cardigan that she had liberated from Ginsberg’s wardrobe at some point.

“Oh,” Ginsberg said, dropping his hand. “Do you want tea or coffee?”

“Uh, coffee?” Stan didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

There were two mugs waiting on the coffee table when they came out. In a frenzy of usefulness Ginsberg had also cleaned up the shattered glass and stacked more blankets on the couch than anyone could possibly need.

“The one on the left is for Peggy,” Ginsberg said. “It’s a hot toddy.”

They sat down - after Stan moved the blankets so that they could fit - with Peggy between them. Just in case she got any big ideas about getting up again.

 

Peggy was on him as soon as they got through the door. He loved her in this kind of mood - pushy as hell, needing it and not afraid to let him know. She had an animal streak down to her bones, his girl.

This was what was underneath all those matchy business suits and client meetings. It was the seed of her competitiveness. Hunger was hunger, and Peggy was a master of it.

“Someone’s feeling better,” he murmured against her mouth. He felt the curve of her smile, her sharp teeth, and then she pushed him down onto the couch.

They were too eager to get undressed properly. Stan got Peggy’s panties off and opened her blouse. He hauled her into his lap the second she got him unzipped and she wasted no time straddling him. “Don’t move,” she said, and slid down with a sigh.

He gripped the edge of the couch with white knuckles, watched her mouth go loose, and waited.

“Okay,” she said. “Now -”

She broke off when he cupped her perfect tits, brushing the hard points of her nipples against his palms. He couldn’t help himself. They were right there.

“Yes?” he asked, casually.

“You bastard,” she muttered, and got her revenge by bouncing up and down, using his shoulders for leverage. Fuck. That didn’t make her chest any less distracting.

But she couldn’t have all the fun. He pushed up into her, slower than she wanted, holding her hips still. Then he refused to move, even when she bit his shoulder. Especially then.

She whimpered his name, and he said directly into her ear, “Gotta ask for it, Peggy, tell me what you want -”

“You guys in there?” Ginsberg called, knocking on the door. “I think I left my wallet at your place.”

Peggy and Stan froze, stared at each other, and communicated with perfect wordless understanding: was the door locked?

He had no idea, and the possibility that it _wasn’t_ hit him right in the gut. When Peggy shifted he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from making a sound. He was hyperaware of everything - Peggy’s heavy breathing, her slickness and heat around him, the dizzy rush of blood leaving his brain for warmer climates.

It took an eternity for Ginsberg’s footsteps to start up and take him out of hearing range.

“Oh my god,” Peggy gasped. “I thought he was going to come in.”

Stan twitched inside her, and she noticed, she knew -

“Oh,” she said, her mouth falling open and her cheeks flushing, “do you like that idea?”

“Peggy -”

“Because I do.”

She was trying to kill him.

“He’d be so shocked,” she continued, rocking back and forth, making Stan groan. “He’d go all pink. But he would stay if we asked him to. If we let him watch.”

Her voice cracked when Stan got a hand on her, tracing the edge of her cunt where she was stretched tight around him. “I’d - I’d have to order him to look. Tell him it was okay - Stan -”

He started fucking her for real, hands on her ass. “Peggy, you -”

She more than met him halfway, thighs trembling as she rode him and one hand between her legs, rubbing herself shamelessly. She didn’t stop talking. “Do you think he would touch himself?”

“Fuck.” Stan gave it to her fast, just the way she liked it, and he was losing it, he was -

“We could - we could show him - oh -” She panted, eyes squeezed shut, free hand fisted in Stan’s shirt. Her words left her when she came, reduced to a high pitched cry, grinding down on him, so fucking tight - and Stan couldn’t hold out any longer. His orgasm hit him like a Mack truck, leaving him in pieces. Hell of a way to cross the finish line.

Peggy slid off his lap and lay beside him. She stared up at the ceiling, not speaking. No movement except the rise and fall of her chest. It wasn’t like her. Usually she wanted to lie around and cuddle after sex.

He nudged her. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Did I… did I make that too weird?” She looked so concerned. Like he was going to make fun of her.

He pulled her towards him, tucking her head under his chin. “We’re already weird.”

“So you don’t mind?”

Even a couple of years before he probably would have. It had taken him too long to realize that he didn’t have anything to prove - not even to himself. Peggy had been a huge part of that. Besides which - getting off was getting off. No one ever had their sex life improved by a bunch of hang-ups.

“I just came my brains out. Do I look like I mind?” He was still boneless with the aftermath of it. Better than any grass he had ever tried.

“Good,” she said with a hesitant but genuine smile. “I’m glad we can be - creative.”

“Or degenerate. Whatever you’d like to call it.”

“Shut up, Stan,” she said, but it was by rote.

 

Stan bought a camera. He may have resented the way the industry was going, but he wasn’t a fool. He was going to have to learn sooner or later. So he bought a camera.

He paid some kid from NYU to teach him how to use it. Said kid was all of nineteen years old and that was an embarrassment, but it was one Stan had to live with if he wanted to get any good with this thing.

He set up a darkroom at Peggy’s - an unused supply closet out in the hall. At this point keeping his own apartment was a formality, so it wouldn’t make sense to have it there. He started out with scenery because trees and buildings weren’t in the habit of moving.

When he moved on to people Peggy became his favorite victim. She humored him at first but quickly lost patience with his shutterbug ways. Consequently Stan owned a large number of photographs of Peggy giving him murderous looks. He thought this was very funny. She did not.

His favorite he had taken wasn’t the most complicated or technically adept. It was just Peggy and Ginzo, sitting on the floor with their heads bent over a storyboard. It had been the end of a long day and they both looked a bit tired, but Stan liked that because it made it more real.

He had been doing a lot of street photography. The spontaneity of it appealed to him.

“You ever hear of Diane Arbus?” he asked Ginsberg, who was lying on the couch reading one of Peggy’s magazines. She had gone out that morning, meeting her sister for lunch and some shopping.

“No,” said Ginsberg, eyes fixed on the magazine like it contained all the secrets of the universe.

“She’s a photographer. Takes pictures of losers like you,” Stan said, and snapped one of him, mostly to be irritating.

It worked. Ginsberg could always be counted upon to more dramatic than the situation required. “Do you ever put that fucking thing down?” he asked, and used the magazine as a shield. When Stan took it away he pulled his shirt up over his face and lay there with his arms crossed and his hair sticking out of the collar.

“You idiot,” Stan said, choking back a laugh. Like that would stop him.

“This isn’t funny,” Ginsberg said, muffled.

And Stan really did laugh at that, in a surge of legitimate affection. He was so glad Peggy had decided to start collecting strays.

He yanked the shirt back down, but Ginsberg surprised him by jumping up and darting past. He could move very fast when motivated - presumably a skill he had perfected by running from people who wanted to kick his ass.

So Stan did what anyone would do and tackled him to the ground.

“ _Stan_ ,” screeched Ginsberg. “Get off me!”

“Nah.” said Stan, and flipped him over.

Ginsberg was squirmy but he was also a lightweight, so he was easy to pin. All Stan had to do was sit on him, really. He looked so mad that for a second Stan thought he was going to get a knee to the balls - but no, Ginsberg just fumed impotently in the most amusing way. Especially when Stan took another picture.

“I am gonna break into your darkroom and ruin every bit of film you got,” Ginsberg threatened.

“No you won’t.”

Ginsberg was breathing hard; he hadn’t run that far. Stan wondered at it, and he also wondered at the strange sound Ginzo made when Stan moved - a suppressed groan deep in his throat. He almost asked Ginsberg if he was okay, if he had hurt him somehow.

Then he leaned back and got an unanticipated tutorial regarding the root of the problem, so to speak.

“Uh,” Stan said stupidly, because he had no fucking idea what he should do.

He knew they spent an abnormal amount of time together, him and Ginzo and Peggy, and it had never bothered him, not even when he sometimes caught Ginsberg giving her misty-eyed looks, because who could blame the poor guy? He had never noticed any of those looks being directed his way, but it also never occurred to him to check.

There was a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Peggy: _did I make that too weird_.

“Happens to everybody?” Stan said. It was a lie and Ginsberg knew it, he wasn’t a thirteen year old who got a hard-on in math class.

There was humiliation flooding Ginsberg’s face - no, no, that was fear, he looked terrified. Stan could see the whites all around his irises and his pupils were shrinking to pinpoints.

“Hey,” said Stan. “ _Hey_. Don’t freak out -”

Way too late. Ginsberg twisted away - as much as he could - and said, “Get off. _getoffgetoffgetoffgetoff_ -”

Stan was off him in a shot. Ginsberg got to his feet and made an aborted attempt for the door, turned back, and then just paced for a second, like he couldn’t calm down enough to figure out how to leave.

“I’m not mad,” said Stan, holding his hands out as though he was gentling a spooked horse. He just kept saying it over and over; I’m not mad I’m not mad I’m not mad.

The door opened and Ginsberg startled, guilt radiating off him from tip to toe. It was Peggy, and if she noticed anything unusual was happening she didn’t mention it.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “I wanted to ask if -”

But Ginsberg was gone, hurtling past her without a word.

 

He couldn’t sit still when he got back to his apartment. He made sure the door was locked twice, turned the T.V. on and then off, and finally collapsed onto his bed and thought about what he had done.

He was the dumbest asshole alive. Too stupid to be allowed around other people, oh my god why had he ever convinced himself that he could control this thing. He could feel it dying to get out every time he was in a room with Peggy or Stan, trying to seep through his skin, but he thought he had everything under wraps, he did. He managed to keep quiet, even, and he could never do that. He had _behaved_.

Couldn’t control his dick, though. One inconvenient erection and his life was ruined.

Because it was. It actually was. Everything was tangled up together, work and home and anything that mattered. And he just set fire to all of it.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

The phone rang and he ignored it.

Someone knocked on the door and he ignored that too.

“I’m not above using my key,” Peggy yelled, and he shuffled across the floor to let her in. He had only been postponing the inevitable.

“I don’t have my key,” she confessed, stepping inside. “That was a lie.”

He couldn’t look at her. So he was a coward now, on top of everything. He was learning all sorts of new information about himself lately.

“Jesus, Ginsberg,” she said. “You look like you just attended your own funeral.”

She touched his face lightly, a barely there press of fingers against his cheek. He flinched away. She was going to be nice about it. That was awful. That was worse than anything.

“Come here,” she said, and hugged him. He didn’t stop her - what was he going to do, shove her off?

Then she whispered in his ear, and it was pure Peggy: “Stop being a jackass.”

She pulled back and offered her hand to him. Not demanding, just offering. Leaving it up to him. “We want to talk to you,” she said. “Michael, trust me on this.”

She rarely called him that.

He listened - because she deserved it, because he was tired already and just wanted this to be over with - so he listened and he took her hand and let her lead him to the end of things.

 

They sat in Peggy’s kitchen around her table and none of them spoke. Ginsberg counted the flowers on her tablecloth and waited for the hammer to drop.

“Look, we -” Peggy said.

“I am so sorry,” said Ginsberg at the same time. When Peggy went quiet he plowed on; it was keep moving or drown and he had to make himself known, he had to know they understood. “I’m sorry that I fucked everything up and I swear it’s not your fault, it has nothing to do with either of you. You have been so good to me and I’m just some pervert, okay? I’m a freakshow.”

“Whoa,” said Stan. “Hold on a minute -”

“I can promise you never have to be bothered again. I’m gonna find somewhere else to live. And,” he took a deep breath, “and a different job, if that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you thought?” Stan asked. He looked perplexed, like Ginsberg had just announced he was joining the foreign legion. “That we brought you here to kick you out?”

Ginsberg shrugged in lieu of an answer.

“Oh for - do you have to be so fatalistic? The sky is not always falling. I meant what I said. I’m - I’m fine with it.”

“I don’t think you are,” said Ginsberg.

“No, he is,” Peggy said, so sure of herself. But that couldn’t be right. “We talked about it, and…” she threw a look at Stan, one that Ginsberg couldn’t read. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“What Peggy means - what _we_ mean - is that,” he stopped, considering. “What we mean is that we’ve grown accustomed to your face.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ginsberg.

“I’m very surprised you saw that movie,” said Peggy.

“What movie?” asked Ginsberg. “Why are we talking movies?”

“We _aren’t_ ,” said Stan. “To hell with it. Is this clear enough for you?”

And that was when Stan kissed him.

It was a good kiss. Firm, with Stan’s strong fingers wrapped around the back of Ginsberg’s neck. When Stan pulled back he looked as surprised as Ginsberg felt.

“Oh,” said Peggy.

Ginsberg looked at her. Her cheeks were turning a soft rose and she was fiddling with the top button of her blouse.

“What?” she said. “I’m not allowed to enjoy this?”

“You look a little overheated,” Ginsberg said. He felt a bit warm too. His head was spinning with relief - or desire. The way his heart knocked against his ribcage had nothing to do with the twisting panic of before. It was hope made manifest.

She retaliated by pulling him across the table by his shirt and planting one on him herself. It figured. Peggy always did have to outdo everybody.

“You’re the prettiest girl I know,” he told her afterwards, because he had wanted to say it for a very long time. It must have made her happy; she kissed him again.

“Is he your favorite now?” Stan asked. “I knew I shouldn’t have brought home someone younger and cuter.”

“You’re both my favorite,” Peggy said with a big grin, and pushed him back towards Stan. “Now do it again.”

He could have stayed there with them forever, just kissing. It would have been enough. Peggy was the one to move things forward. She bit his earlobe gently and slid her hand up his shirt. “Want to?” she asked, while he drew in a breath at the feeling of her fingers on his skin.

He managed to get a yes out somehow. It was unbelieveable, to go into Peggy’s bedroom and get undressed and lay down with them. He felt like he should be apologizing for being hard. He couldn’t keep his eyes or his hands to himself.

Stan held him down and kissed him until he was panting, pinned his wrists against the bedspread and wouldn’t let him move, the goddamned tease. Beside them Peggy cursed and pushed her fingers into herself.

That was when Stan let Ginsberg go. “Watch,” he said, coaxed Peggy’s fingers out and sucked them into his mouth.

“Jesus,” Ginsberg whimpered, so heartfelt that he sounded Catholic.

Stan spread Peggy’s legs - Ginsberg helped, curling a hand around the back of one knee - and fingered her until she came, shaking all over. He kissed her through it, the same lazy, unhurried way he had kissed Ginsberg.

“Your turn,” Stan said, moving from between Peggy’s legs. When Ginsberg took his place she pushed him downwards by the shoulders, which was confusing at first, but -

_Oh_. He put his mouth on her, licked in, hoped he was doing it right because he had no fucking clue. She was making sounds, gorgeous perfect moans and gasps. He just - he went for everything, licking up her slit with the flat of his tongue, sucking on her clit, holding her thighs apart so he could get as close to her taste as possible. Stan cupped the back of his head, encouraging.

Peggy came again and he felt it go through her everywhere. She drummed her feet against his back and there were tremors in the soft skin under his hands, fine twitches in the muscle.

“Not bad,” Stan said, sounding impressed.

“I knew you had it in you,” Peggy said, slumped back against the headboard, drunk with satisfaction. Ginsberg used her inner thigh for a pillow and tried to catch his breath.

Stan’s hand was in his hair still, blunt nails dragging along his scalp. He was rubbing himself against the blankets like when he woke up after a dirty dream. It wasn’t enough, but he resisted all the same when Stan pulled his hips up so he was on his knees, away from the bed.

“Come _on_ ,” he whined, frustrated. He was starting to get past the good kind of hurt. He ached.

“Shhh,” said Stan. “I got you.” He wrapped an arm around Ginsberg’s waist and a hand around his cock, stroking him firmly.

“Fuck,” Ginsberg said, feeling his legs go weak. But it was fine, it was better than fine, Stan was holding him up. Stan was working him over, pumping him hard and confident, like he did this every day. He got a little rough near the end, fingers digging into Ginsberg’s side, and that just made it better, so much better -

Peggy was rubbing Ginsberg’s back, telling him he’d done good, he was such a good boy, and that was what made him come. He choked back a sob and his legs really did give out underneath him and it went on _forever_ , until he lay there shivering with his head in Peggy’s lap.

“You okay down there?” she asked.

“This is the best day of my life,” he said.

Peggy finished Stan off with her mouth, which sure was something to see. His hands kept clenching in her hair but he didn’t pull, and Ginsberg could see him swallow every time she did something he particularly liked. He looked at her like he couldn’t believe his luck. Never took his eyes off her, even when he came. Ginsberg understood the feeling.

He wanted to try that out. Maybe Peggy would show him the ropes.

The next morning he got his chance. Stan woke him up and tried to get Peggy up too, but she wasn’t having it.

“You sure?” Stan said, kissing her on the shoulder. “We all need showers, and you know what the hot water here is like.”

“Go ahead.” She waved them off, faceplanting into the pillow. “I’m going to sleep in anyway.”

So Stan dragged Ginsberg into the shower on the pretense of saving water. It might have even been the truth; he looked startled when Ginsberg went down on his knees.

“Wow,” he said. “Uh, okay. If you want to.”

Ginsberg did want to. He let Stan instruct him, sometimes gripping him by the hair, sometimes touching the wet stretch of his lips or the joint of his jaw. Stan did most of the work with his hips or his hands, made it so Ginsberg could just open up and take it. He found he liked that a whole lot. Enough to touch himself and enough to close his eyes and concentrate on the weight of Stan on his tongue, on the slick of water rolling down his back like rain. His pulse hammered away as steady as a ticking clock, or maybe it was Stan’s, or the both of them together.

 

Fundamentally very little about his life changed. He still made Peggy her coffee in the morning and stayed up all night working on pitches and called his father at least once a week. It was just that he kept a spare toothbrush in someone else’s bathroom now. And had hickies in interesting places. That too.

Though he did get a new bed. Peggy and Stan insisted.

 

“Are you sure it’ll be done in time?” Ginsberg asked, again, and ducked back from Peggy’s glare when she raised her head. She was only stirring the soup but she made that spoon look like a weapon.

“How many times do I have to say yes?”

“I know,” he said. “I know. But I’m nervous, I can’t help it.”

“Why?” Peggy said in exasperation. “You’ve had Shabbat dinner with your father before.”

“I never hosted it. This is completely different.”

“Go for a walk,” she said, and pointed towards the door with the spoon. “It will calm you down. You’re driving me crazy.”

“But -”

“If you don’t,” she threatened, low and with deadly intent, “I am going to put ham in _everything_.”

“Fine,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. She swatted him on the ass as soon as he turned around, solely because she could.

He felt much better after his walk. Stan helped him set the table, laying out the challah and arranging the candles. His candlesticks were mismatched, but it still looked nice.

They had done all the cooking in Peggy’s apartment so they didn’t have to worry about getting the kitchen clean before their guests arrived. Morris and Rachel appeared at Ginsberg’s door right on time and brought wine with them.

He insisted his father be the one to recite kiddush. Morris protested - he wasn’t the man of the house, he said.

“But you say it better,” Ginsberg told him, sitting down.

When Morris started the blessing he followed along all the same, silently mouthing words he could barely remember not knowing. They were as familiar as his own face in the mirror.

_Baruch atah, Adonai, m'kadeish HaShabbat_ , his father said, and under the table Ginsberg grasped Peggy’s hand on his left and Stan’s hand on his right.

“Amen,” he said, because family was all that a man had in this world. _Amen_.


End file.
